The Arizona sentinel., 1887-01-22

NebF l dSheu, TOT IL Wdo HOW ldo1 twelve o'clock.
 "Sehr aoe'lig," they said; very little.
 The mother could not give them any any this morning; she must go to the field. The elder seemed, mother-like, most anxious that the little one should make a sale of her lace, though little Anna said: You see hers is nicer than mine, for she is older, you see, and can make much nicer lace than I can; of course, my lady, it is better that you buy hers than mine."
 I thought of Wordsworth's idyl, "We are Seven." The beauty of their kindliness and love for each other in their poverty, if not of face or feature, made me glad Both were ex- quisitely clean-face and hands and hair. This was also neatly combed. There were no bangs falling over their foreheads, but every hair was drawn back and fastened, as though not a stray hair should blind their eyes or hinder them in their work. We drove back through this valley, and the sun had long been out of sight behind the high western mountains when we passed their little stall. But both were there still at work, their little fingers fyingno less nimbly than in the morning when I first saw them. They recognized me and bowed and smiled gratefully for the poor, small pur- chase had made of them. l dare say it was the only sale they had made during the day. Dear little Swiss lace makers, in the valley of Lauterbrunnen! you gave me far more than l did you in the few francs l paid for your lace. Your lives shall henceforth be part of mine, and the red threads in your lace will signify to me the life-blood of two of my little sisters. am sure I shall find you again some where, sometime! It was not chance that led me to your little stall to- day. Your paths in life crossed mine, to teach me a broader, tenderer hu- manity. was never so thankful for my very imperfect understanding and use of the French and German lan- guages lover which have spent months and years of late night and early morning study. l did not know why, only that was irresistibly drawn to read and know them), as Ihave been for their help to get at the heart of these poor peoples lives-their homes; to find out how they lived, what sun shine came into them-
 And how do you live in winter?" l asked of the guide who was leading my horse through one of these passes the other day.
 "O' Sehr gemuthlich," he replied, which means both kindly and cheerily, and he explained to me that the people in these valleys were very '.freundlich mt einGnder, :" they visited each other good deal; in short were ''Sehr aaunter" gay in the long winters.
 ''And what do these people live on?" I asked.
 O, they had potatoes, he said, and the vegetables that they raised in summer, and they had their goats, and they had bread-a few had a COW. They could get wood from the mountains, they made their houses warm, and they lived gaily.
 And what do you do all the long winter when you can not work in the fields and when the sun scarcely shines on you for months?h
 The women, he said, spun the flax that saw them spreading and turning in the fields; they made the lace that l saw them selling; they embroidered the handkerchiefs saw in the shops. The men got the wood and they carved the articles that saw in shops in all Swiss towns, and that saw in all these places along the road. They were very indus trious, and skilful, and ingenious. The latter traits I could well believe they possessed when I saw them with sharp-pointed knife alone turn a small block of wood into a deer or chamois that really seemed alive and leaping from crag to crag of the mountain heights.
 '.Do you ever have meat to eat?" I asked.
 "Gar bei'e feiSch,'' ,'' was his reply.
 "Ever have coffee or tea to drink?'
 Nothing of that llind," he said, and vet like Wordsworth little maid who ate her supper on her sisters grave, ''he had his way and insisted that they lived comfortably, though ''sehr arne''-very poor-and were gay dur ing the long winters.
 ''Do the slides of fsnow-avalanches- never come down here?" I asked.
 ''Yes, sometimes they did," he said, and he pointed out a place where one fell three years ago, burying a man and four children, the mother was out and escaped.
 And have the people never warn ing of their fall," I further inquired, ESQ that they could escape to a safer place?"
 "They were more likely to fall in the spring." he said, but they never knew when or just where they would fall. And so they lived on. That they could have their joys, gather some sun shine into their lives, live ''gemuthIict" and ''munter," as he said they did in the long, sunless winters, was glad and thanked God. I was glad-more than glad-thankful with the deepest righteousness of my heart that by these